


You Don't Have to Say it, Darling (but I Wouldn't Mind if You Did)

by Curlscat



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Communication Failure, M/M, morons to lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-21
Updated: 2020-11-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 07:29:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27649576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Curlscat/pseuds/Curlscat
Summary: Every time Jaskier tells him he loves him, he says it like a secret, like something precious, not to be shared with the world.//Jaskier gives Geralt a drunken confession, so obviously Geralt assumes they're dating now. So what if Jaskier is taking things slow? They'll get there eventually, right? (Spoilers: yes, but it's a bit of a bumpy ride.)
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 82
Kudos: 708





	You Don't Have to Say it, Darling (but I Wouldn't Mind if You Did)

**Author's Note:**

> this MIGHT get a little OOC at the end. T-T Getting Geralt to actually TALK about his feelings is hard, man. But they're both a peak idiot, which is my ideal dynamic, so there's that.

Jaskier tells Geralt he loves him for the first time when they’re both piss-drunk. Geralt doesn’t get drunk often, but it has been a long fucking week, and he deserves this, he thinks. The thing is dead, and he’s been paid, and if he wants to get so drunk he can’t see straight that’s his godsdamned right.

Jaskier can hold his liquor better than a lot of humans, but he’s still drunker than Geralt is. They’re sat at a table in a tavern that doesn’t seem to mind that Geralt is big and mutated and dangerous as long as he stays put, and either this is very good ale or Jaskier is actually funny.

Jaskier _is_ funny. That’s mean, Geralt is being mean, and it seems important that he let Jaskier know this, that he actually likes him and doesn’t mean half the shit he says, that Geralt is just an ass.

“You’re funny,” is what he says. It’s not enough, somehow.

Jaskier grins at him. “I know,” he says, and winks. It’s far too alluring for someone as drunk as Jaskier is.

He doesn’t, though. He doesn’t know, because Geralt doesn’t mean that Jaskier is funny, he means that Jaskier is bright and loving and full of life in a world that doesn’t take well to that, that Jaskier has stayed soft and beautiful in a world that seems determined to drown all that out.

“No, I mean—” Geralt starts, and stops, because he doesn’t know how to say it, has never fucking known how to say these things, has never had anyone who stayed long enough for him to try to say them. “You’re— _good_ , Jaskier.”

Jaskier blinks at him, his face going soft and confused for a moment before he bursts in with the biggest, sunshiniest smile Geralt has ever seen. He leans forward over the table conspiratorially, like he’s revealing a secret, and says, “I love you, you know?”

And Geralt—

Geralt knew, sort of. Because he’s seen Jaskier fall in love with everyone who gives him the time of day and quite a few people who don’t, knows that Jaskier loves people, human or otherwise, loves men who are more delicate even than he is and round women with soft pillowy thighs and stomachs and men and women both who could snap in him half. And he knows what Jaskier looks like when he’s in love, and it’s so much like the way he looks when he’s gotten a shadow of a laugh out of Geralt.

But he didn’t think—

Well. He thought it would pass. Because it always does, with Jaskier. He gets bored, or antsy, or he falls in love with someone else. But then again, Jaskier has been with Geralt, on and off, for over a decade now.

Geralt has leaned in, somehow, so his face is up close against Jaskier’s, so they’re sharing breath, warm and sour with alcohol.

Jaskier smiles at him again, so soft, and reaches out a hand— usually so nimble but clumsy now— and pats Geralt on the cheek. “Follow you anywhere,” he says.

Geralt allows himself to smile back.

* * *

Things don’t change much. And why should they? Things were good before, and they’re still good now. Geralt touches Jaskier a little more freely, allows himself a little more softness, a little more kindness, a little more openness. They’ve already shared blankets in the cold, shared beds when money is tight, shared coin and food and clothes. But now it’s all charged with this extra weight, because Jaskier—

Geralt doesn’t let himself think about it too much. It’s too much, too delicate, too important.

But it’s real, and Geralt holds it in his heart and feeds it.

Jaskier still falls in love with other people, and Geralt considers being upset about it, briefly, but he isn’t, really, and why make problems where he doesn’t have to? Jaskier is so full of love, how could Geralt ask him to stop? Or hold it inside? Jaskier comes back to Geralt after, and that’s the important thing. 

And Jaskier doesn’t seem to mind when Geralt falls into bed with Yennefer, either, so it works out. 

Every time Jaskier tells him he loves him, he still says it like a secret, like something precious and not to be shared with the world. Yennefer doesn’t change that, nor anyone else.

If he’s honest, Geralt would like to move a little faster. To have the sort of physical relationship with Jaskier that they both slide into so easily with other people. To feel Jaskier’s lips against his skin. But Geralt hasn’t been with a lot of men, and he certainly hasn’t been with any he cared enough about to keep, so he isn’t going to push, especially when he knows he can be a little intimidating to have as a bedfellow. There’s a reason he mostly beds people he knows he can’t break.

And he could so easily break Jaskier.

He tries not to think about that, but he can’t help remembering how breakable Jaskier is, how mortal, how frighteningly human. How he’ll leave someday, whether Geralt pushes him out of his life or something snatches him away. So he will not push. He will not ask for more than Jaskier is willing to give. He will not, will not, will not destroy this.

Until, of course, he does.

Because he always destroys things, because it’s what he is, too big too strong too much a monster created to kill other monsters, so of course he manages to finally, finally figure out the thing to say that will _make Jaskier leave_. Tells Jaskier he wishes him gone, tells him lies, because of course they’re lies, because Jaskier is the brightest spot he’s had around these past few decades, hard as it has been to say that out loud.

And now he is left with silence, with no one to say it to.

* * *

When they find each other again, it goes better than Geralt expected. It might be because Ciri’s there. Jaskier sees Ciri, small and fierce and pretending not to be scared, and Geralt can _see_ the moment Jaskier decides to adopt her.

And they fall back into traveling together, and it’s different. Jaskier doesn’t touch Geralt anymore. He’s careful with him. Because of course he is. Because Geralt ended things. Ended them in the worst way possible. Drove Jaskier away in a way that he knew would get him to go. But Jaskier is back now, and it’s not the same, but it’s better than nothing.

Geralt still loves him, still wants him. But he will not ask Jaskier if he still feels the same. He will not hurt Jaskier again. Will not even ask him to stay again, wishes he could explain that he wants to keep Jaskier with him always, but wishes more that Jaskier could be safe and happy, and his life is not one that lends itself to safety and happiness.

A small part of him thinks that maybe Jaskier doesn’t want this as much as Geralt does, that Jaskier doesn’t really love him. That if he did, he would’ve done more by now, more than whisper his love like a secret and touch Geralt gently. It’s harder now to ignore that part, the part that thinks Jaskier is probably happy it’s over.

But if Jaskier is happy it’s over, why did he come back?

He doesn’t know. And he doesn’t know how to ask.

After all, it’s not like he’s ever gotten the courage to tell Jaskier he loves him back.

* * *

He starts trying to make it up to Jaskier. He still can’t say how he feels, but he can show it, maybe. Because Jaskier being here? It feels like a second chance.

If it is, Geralt is going to try his best to show Jaskier that he’s willing to take whatever the bard will give him.

He starts with gifts. Lute strings made of monster gut, actual good food, a new bedroll, new boots. Then he moves on to doing little thinks for Jaskier. He doesn’t touch him, because Jaskier doesn’t touch him anymore, and that’s what they did before, when they were together. But he can darn his stupid doublets, and toss a cloak over him when the rain starts, and let him ride Roach, once in a while.

Jaskier seems happy enough about it, though he always looks the tiniest bit surprised, and confused. That hurts, that he’s confused. Has Geralt been this bad at showing his affection before? Why on earth would Jaskier come back to him if Geralt treated him that badly before?

He watches Jaskier teach Ciri how to play the lute from the far side of the campfire, and he keeps his expression neutral, but he wants to melt at the sight, because these are two of his favorite people, and they like each other, they get along, they’re interacting. Jaskier is good for Ciri, helps her remember there’s light and color in the world.

After Ciri goes to bed he tells Jaskier this. Says, “You’re good for her.”

Jaskier raises his eyebrows. “I’ve been teaching her to play your least favorite song.”

That’s not what he— “She smiles more, since you started traveling with us.”

Jaskier smiles a little, too.

Then Geralt says, “Winter’s on its way.”

And there goes Jaskier’s smile. They’ve never wintered together, even when they were more than friends. Jaskier goes off to find a court to play at, or goes to teach at Oxenfurt, and Geralt goes home. He’ll be going home this year, too. He hopes the others like Ciri. Of course they will, though. He hopes she likes them. Hopes they can feel like family to her, too.

“I don’t know if we’ll be traveling next year,” Geralt says, which is why he said this.

Jaskier’s face goes from “unsmiling” to “expressionless” in a snap. “Oh,” he says. He looks across at Ciri. “Yeah. She’ll be safer in the keep, won’t she?”

“Mm,” Geralt agrees.

“Well,” Jaskier says, softly. He doesn’t quite look at Geralt as he says, “I’ll miss— I’ll miss her.”

“You could—” Geralt starts, stops.

Jaskier looks at him, really looks at him. He starts smiling again, just a little. “I could…?” he prompts.

“Ciri likes having you around,” Geralt says. “You could. Stay with her. Us.”

Because it’s got to be about Ciri. He can’t ask this for himself, can’t push Jaskier to give more than he’s willing, can’t beg Jaskier to take him back, much as he wants to. It’s not fair to Jaskier, not when he broke things off so terribly.

“Are you certain?” Jaskier asks. “Because if you’re not, Geralt—” he stops, starts again. “I don’t want to insert myself where I’m not wanted. I can give you a break from me.”

“You’re wanted,” Geralt assures him. It’s hard to say, but he can say it.

“Oh,” Jaskier says, brightening even further. “Well, then, yes. I’ll come.”

* * *

Geralt has never tried to tie Jaskier to him. Neither of them are the kind to need that, and Geralt can’t ask it, has never wanted to. He’s always let Jaskier go where he wanted, do what he wanted. Because Jaskier stays with Geralt when he wants to be there, and he goes off when he wants to be elsewhere, and that’s how it is, and it’s fine. Geralt is used to being alone, and it’s always good to see Jaskier again.

What he means is, it’s strange, to know he’ll have Jaskier with him the whole winter. Possibly longer. Probably not, because probably Jaskier will get restless by the time spring arrives, and will want to go off on his own. He usually does, after more than a month in one place. Four months snowed in to an ancient keep is going to wreak havoc on him.

He’s trying to wrap his mind around _knowing_ Jaskier will still be with him in a week, in two weeks. In a month. It’s strange. Not bad, just strange. He worries Jaskier will end up regretting it. Hopes he won’t. Hopes maybe—

No. He’s not hoping for more. Having Jaskier in the same place is enough, he doesn’t need to share a bed or a bath, doesn’t need Jaskier’s hand on his arm, doesn’t need to put his own hand on the small of Jaskier’s back to steady him, doesn’t need massages and hands in his hair. What he has is more than he deserves, and certainly more than he’ll get to keep.

And it’s good, what he does have. It is enough.

* * *

It comes to a head near the middle of winter. This time, it’s Geralt who’s drunk. He hasn’t spent too much time alone with Jaskier. It’s nice to have him around, but Geralt isn’t the only one who thinks so. The other wolves like Jaskier, too. They’ve been monopolizing him, when they’re not monopolizing Ciri. Geralt spent the first few weeks enjoying the ability to spend some time alone or just with his horse, for once, and found, when he’d finally recovered from a long, long span of months on the road where he could never let his guard down or be truly on his own, that everyone had settled into a rhythm that he didn’t quite fit into.

And it’s not as if he feels unwelcome in his own home, or anything as dramatic as that. It’s more that everyone seems to have assumed he still needs space, and are trying to give it to him. And he doesn’t quite know how to ask them to stop.

The real problem is that Jaskier and Lambert have picked up quite a flirtation, and it seems to be getting serious. Far too serious for Geralt’s liking.

So, tonight, Geralt has been getting drunk, but so has everyone besides Ciri, who has been allowed one ale. Jaskier and Lambert are playing some kind of game that seems to mostly be an excuse to touch each other, and Geralt is watching.

It never used to bother Geralt, who Jaskier slept with. It was enough to know that Jaskier would come back to him, and vice versa. He’d sort of assumed that Jaskier was… not afraid, because Jaskier doesn’t have the sense the gods gave a mosquito. But, well, worried about bedding a witcher and not liking it, or something. It’s ruined other relationships Geralt’s almost-had.

But Lambert… that’s not just strange because it’s Geralt’s _brother_ , it’s also… it means that the problem, all along, wasn’t being a witcher, wasn’t his size or his monstrousness, it was just Geralt.

And that? That’s too much. That’s the line, the one thing, that Geralt can’t take. Because he thought Jaskier, at least, accepted him. But their whole relationship, over a decade of it, was built on— what? Disgust?

Unless, maybe—

Could Jaskier have thought _Geralt_ didn’t want it?

No, that’s stupid. Jaskier has seen Geralt, has _literally_ seen Geralt with other people. (Women. Jaskier has seen Geralt with women, doesn’t know about the occasional men, because there are so many less of them).

It’s all moot, because Geralt ended things, and Jaskier has shown no interest in starting them up again, and why would he, after all the things Geralt said? Still, though, Geralt can’t stop thinking about it, brooding as he watches Jaskier and Lambert flirt so brazenly on the other side of the room.

Eskel notices, though, because of course he does, damn him, and he cocks an eyebrow at Geralt, asking a question without asking. Geralt just shakes his head in answer. Eskel shrugs, and Geralt writes it off and goes back to nursing his black mood and his ale. Later, though, on his way to get himself another drink, Eskel leans in to Lambert, whispers something. They both look at him, not even pretending to be subtle, and Lambert, very suddenly, is getting up from the table and saying who knows what to Jaskier, taking himself off to bed at far too early an hour.

Geralt sinks further into his funk. It’s none of his business who beds who, and he doesn’t need his brother’s _pity_ about a former lover who wasn’t even really a lover because they never did anything but spend wonderful time together and do something that Geralt is certainly not going to call cuddling.

Soon after, Eskel leaves, too, Ciri following after readily enough, probably being led with the promise of something interesting on the other end, because Eskel knows all sorts of interesting things that he’s so happy to have someone to tell, and Geralt isn’t jealous, really he’s not, he’s just lonely. And then, not long after, Vesemir, and in the end, Geralt and Jaskier are left alone in the room, Jaskier by the fire and Geralt not off in a corner by himself, but not right up next to it the way Jaskier is. And still, Jaskier leaves the comfort of warmth and light and comes to sit at the table with Geralt.

“So,” he says.

Geralt hums a response, because if he speaks when he’s this drunk all the words will come spilling out of him and he won’t ever be able to take any of them back and it’ll be as bad as last time, or worse, because this time he’s not angry he’s just sad.

“Eskel said something,” Jaskier says, “and a minute later, Lambert decided he didn’t want to sleep with me after all. And I’m not an idiot—”

Geralt snorts a laugh, because Jaskier has left a pause for him to do so, almost without thinking about it, it seems.

“I’m not,” Jaskier presses, “so I know it was something about you. Why, pray tell, have you decided to get involved in my love life?”

Geralt snorts again, because that’s rich. Just because they’re not— Geralt still cares, all right?

Jaskier is apparently actually expecting an answer to this, even though half the time he asks a question he’s not any more interested in getting Geralt to respond than Geralt is in speaking. But he’s got his eyebrows raised, turned fully towards Geralt, obviously waiting.

And what is Geralt supposed to say? He knows he hasn’t got any right to say anything, but he just misses Jaskier, and misses all the things they apparently could have been having but Jaskeir didn’t want, and not because of all the things Geralt is, but because of _who_ he is and—

“What?” Jaskier asks.

“What?” Geralt says right back.

“What do you mean, the things we could have been having?” Jaskier asks.

Oh sweet Melitele, has Geralt been speaking out loud?

“Yes,” Jaskier says.

Well. In for a penny, in for a pound. He’s already ruining it—

“Ruining what, Geralt?”

“Everything. Us. The idea that we’d have anything, and I know we can’t have what we had before, and I’m sorry, I am, because I liked what we had before, even if you didn’t want to kiss or anything like that, but—”

“What?”

Geralt is rambling now, there’s no stopping him, all the words he didn’t want to say tumbling out of him straight down into his nearly empty mug of ale (and what number is this? He doesn’t know.) “I thought it was because I’m not human, and you weren’t interested in getting physical, but obviously you’re interested in _Lambert_ —”

“Geralt!” Jaskier says, loud and anxious and very worried. And that’s not all right, that Jaskier’s worried, so Geralt stops. Jaskier takes the mug from Geralt’s hands, and sets it on the table carefully. Then he grabs Geralt’s hands in his and says, “I want you to start over, from the actual beginning please. What’s this about getting physical? About kissing?”

“What do you mean what’s this?” Geralt says, meeting Jaskier’s eyes, hard as that is. “Twelve years, and you’ve already forgotten? Moved on? Well, I haven’t.” Of course Jaskier’s moved on. He’s always been quick with his loves, eager to share them. Of course Jaskier meant more to Geralt than the other way around.

“I really and truly do not understand what you are talking about,” Jaskier says. “Geralt, my dearest friend, _when_ would we have kissed?”

“Any time,” Geralt says. “Any time since you told me you loved me.”

“Since I—” Jaskier goes very abruptly white, then very, very red. “Since I what?”

“You don’t—” Oh. Oh gods. Jaskier doesn’t— He was very drunk. Every single time, he was so, so drunk. “Oh. I’m. Never mind. I just— I thought— it’s. Don’t.” This is why he doesn’t speak. When he does, he puts his foot in his damned mouth and ruins everything. Geralt goes to stand, to get as far away from Jaskier and this miserable conversation as possible.

But Jaskier doesn’t let go of his hands, tugs hard to keep Geralt from going. And Geralt could get away easily if he wanted to, but Jaskier wants him to stay, still.

“So let me get this straight,” Jaskier says. “I got drunk off my ass and told you I was in love with you. And you— what? Assumed we were together, after that? That I’d changed from wanting to bed anyone who showed me the least bit of interest to wanting to take things slower than a glacier?”

“I get it,” Geralt grumbles. If he could blush, he would be bright red right now. “I’m an idiot.”

“No, it’s not that, I just—” Jaskier lets out a little laugh. It sounds unhinged. “I thought— Geralt, if I’d thought you _wanted_ me—”

Geralt wants to leave. Why won’t Jaskier let him _leave_?

“Geralt—” Jaskier says, and then—

Then there’s a warm mouth on his, and everything is all right.

* * *

“So,” Jaskier says, much later. So much later, in fact, that it’s morning.

Geralt groans. He’s not hungover, exactly, but he’s not feeling his best.

“Geralt,” Jaskier says again, and yanks the covers back.

“Can’t it wait?” Geralt asks. The sun is shining in on his face in a way that is, frankly, rude. He wonders if he could scare it into moving elsewhere. Or scare someone else into switching rooms, so he could have one where the sun didn’t shine on him in the morning. He could take one of the myriad empty rooms, of course, but it’d be so much more satisfying to fight Lambert for his room.

“No,” Jaskier says, and he’s definitely smiling, but he’s deadly serious underneath it.

Geralt wraps his arms around Jaskier’s middle and uses him as a shield against the sun. “Please?” he asks.

“One little conversation,” Jaskier says. “Just one conversation, and then you can go back to bed. I’ll even find you a curtain.”

“Fine,” Geralt grumbles. But he’s not moving. Jaskier’s stomach is soft and warm and blocks the light beautifully.

“Right,” Jaskier says. “I think, all things considered, we should talk about this. Us, I mean.”

Geralt regrets agreeing to this already.

“Don’t be like that,” Jaskier says, though Geralt hasn’t said anything. “I just. If we spent years thinking we understood each other when really we were in separate countries, mentally, we should get it all out in the open, don’t you think?”

Geralt mumbles something that might be an agreement.

“Excellent,” Jaskier says. “Now, this part is going to involve a bit of communicating on your part, my dear, I know how much you hate that, but bear with me. What do you want out of this?”

And— what does he want? Really, he wants what he has. Friendship, and knowing each other, and someone who’s willing to talk while he keeps his mouth shut, and who doesn’t mind when he doesn’t want to open his mouth. And more kissing. Kissing and sex, Jaskier was not lying when he said he was excellent at both of those things.

“What do you want?” he says instead, while he figures out how to say that.

“A million things,” Jaskier says. “This blasted war with Nilfgaard to be over, my name to go down in history, a nice bath and nice clothes, to buy a house in the south for when I want to retire… But with you? I want to know where I stand. Whether you truly want me around or if I’m always going to feel like a tagalong who has to wheedle you into wanting to spend time with me—”

“You’re not—” Geralt says, and this is important enough that he sits up, stares Jaskier in the face. “You’ve never been that.”

Jaskier laughs a little. “I was, at first.”

“Well,” Geralt says, thoughtful. “Maybe a little.” he gives Jaskier a bit of a smile, though. “Not for a long time, though. Since before the law of surprise.”

“Oh,” Jaskier says, his face going soft. “Geralt.” He’s silent for a long moment before he says, “So. What do you want our relationship to look like?”

“What we had before,” Geralt says. “Or… what I thought we had. Only real. And with sex. If you—”

“Oh, absolutely,” Jaskier says in a rush. “Much more sex, yes, excellent. But— so you don’t want us to be monogamous? Because I can do monogamy, if you need me to.”

“Do you want monogamy?” Geralt asks.

“Not particularly.” This said with a little laugh. “Do you?”

Geralt shrugs. He doesn’t care either way, as long as he has commitment. “I just want to know you’ll come back, after.”

“Oh, my love,” Jaskier says. “You already had that.”

And this time, Geralt knows it’s real.


End file.
